


The South Side

by oftennot



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Abortion, Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Angst, Drama, F/M, Freeform, Gen, Lots of Angst, Pre-Canon, Pre-Riverdale, Romance?, Slut Shaming, Teenage Pregnancy, Teenage Rebellion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2018-11-10 21:45:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11135292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftennot/pseuds/oftennot
Summary: FP grabs her roughly. "You act like you're better than the Serpents, better than me - but guess what sweetheart?" He leans in, his lips brushing against her ear as he speaks. "You'll always be a south side girl."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set before the events of the CW's Riverdale, when Alice Cooper and Forsythe Pendleton Jones II are teenagers attending Riverdale High School. Since Alice has not yet married Hal Cooper, I am using her maiden name, Smith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED AND REWRITTEN: February 6, 2018.

Alice Smith finishes tying her shiny, silky blonde hair into a ponytail with a tug of the hairband. Her hair is pulled back from her face, not a strand out of place, lining up like soldiers under inspection. As she examines her image in the mirror she notices some of her brown roots are beginning to show, a dark stain upon a pristine white cover. She’ll need to touch them up again soon. She grabs her bottle of pearly pink lip gloss that she managed to find at the drugstore for only a dollar (that has _almost_ the same shade as the Covergirl gloss she saw Hermione wearing) and applies it to her lips. It tastes like stale candy. Alice smiles into the mirror sitting crooked on her nightstand, checking for smudges on her teeth. A layer of dust acts as a soft filter on her reflection in the glass.

 _Not perfect_ , she thinks, _but close._

Alice steps back from her dresser to allow more of her form to be reflected in the mirror, doing one last check of her outfit for the day. It is part of her morning ritual to make sure her appearance is impeccable. Alice is not afforded luxuries like the rest of her classmates and friends at Riverdale High. She has no allowance, and her mother certainly would not lend her money for trivial and useless things like shopping or going to a movie. What nice clothes Alice owns she bought herself, saving every penny and dime she earns from her part time job at the grocery store. But those earnings were nothing to write home about either, so she had learned to search thrift shops and donation stores, finding the rare designer or close enough knock off items like diamonds in the rough. She takes meticulous care of all her possessions, checks every tag for light wash or dry cleaning, hangs every blouse in color-coordinated rows, and irons her pants.

Alice is not from Riverdale proper, but she tries her damn hardest to make it look that way.

Alice gathers her school bag, packing her textbooks and folders in a neat fashion and heads for her bedroom door. Her feet pad softly across the 20 year old carpet, full of stains and always reeking slightly of cat pee. She does her best not to look down. From the kitchenette, the smell of burnt bacon and eggs and cigarettes permeates throughout the small trailer home. Alice cringes and switches to breathing out of her mouth to avoid the stench. She closes the door silently behind her, being mindful of the third hinge that squeaks as she makes her way down the hall. It is morning routine for Alice to sneak past her mother. Typically the woman is still passed out, sleeping off what is sure to be a dreadful hangover. Yet this morning Alice doesn’t hear the soft snores coming from her mother’s room, and that combined with the odor of what can only be breakfast leaves her tiptoeing down the hallway.

She is about to turn into the entryway and be free, when -

“Is that you, Alice?”

Caught, Alice curses under her breath, gritting her teeth. “Yes, mother,” she answers, sighing in defeat and turning back to the kitchen. Her grip on the straps of her backpack tightens, her fingers whitening under the strain, as she slips the bag off and places it on the floor by the table.

Her mother is standing at the ancient gas stove that always emits a slight kerosene smell when turned on. She slaps a helping of scrambled eggs covered in grease and bacon burned nearly black onto a plastic children’s plate she bought when Alice was a toddler. The faded colors and myriad of scratches betray their years. Her mother motions for Alice to sit at the table just big enough for two and sets the plate in front of her.

“Eat up,” she orders, the words coming out muffled from around her cigarette. Alice scowls and waves her hand furiously to get the smoke out of her face. She hopes the smell doesn’t take to her clothes. Hal hates smoking.

Alice surveys the breakfast, pushing the soggy eggs around on her plate with a plastic fork. She has no appetite, and besides, such a cholesterol-filled meal would violate her carefully controlled diet. Her mother appraises her from across the table as she takes another drag of her cigarette, eyes foggy with the lingering effects of an all night binger. She blows the smoke straight towards her daughter. “What crawled up your ass this morning?” Her gravelly voice puts Alice on edge, as it always does.

“Nothing,” Alice bites out, her grip on the fork tightening. “I’m not very hungry.” She pointedly keeps her gaze focused down on her meal. _Don’t take the bait_ , she thinks.

Her mother scoffs. “I wake up early to make a good breakfast for you, and this is how you treat me?” She gripes, not minding (more likely not even aware of) the countless other days where she neglected to get up and make food for her child.

Alice bites her the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from talking back. That would only make her mother’s mood worse. “Thank you, mother.” She answers in a polite tone, rehearsed to soothe the older woman’s nerves.

Her mother ignores Alice. Her attention is elsewhere, her unfocused gaze now looking at something off to the right. Alice doesn’t need to peek to know what her mother is staring at. Her mother made sure to remind her as often as possible.

Hanging on a frayed piece of string hooked over a bent nail is an old photo from the 70s, the decade given away by the classic vignette tint. It’s one of the only pieces of decoration in the home. In it are two teenagers, a young man and woman, though only the latter is smiling. They’re in formal wear, in front of Riverdale High School, the girl in the photo placing her left hand ever so lightly on the abdomen of her date. Her head is leaning on his shoulder. The man, however, is stiff, his hand that is not loosely around the girl’s wait hanging by his side. If you look closely, a banner hanging in the background reads, “Riverdale High Senior Prom, 1975.”

These are Alice’s parents. Her mother now looks like a completely different person. Alice had gotten a slap to the face when she asked her mother who the girl was once before. She wonders what her mother thinks about the picture, why she keeps it hanging after all this time. Alice has never met her father. He left soon after she was born.

She knows her mother blames her.

“What are you now, a Junior? Senior?” Her mother questions, eyes still glued to the portrait.

“I’m a Senior this year,” Alice replies hesitantly. Her mother does not usually take interest in her daughter’s life.

Her mother grunts. “You keepin’ your grades up? You’re not whoring around, are you? A slut’s no good to anyone.” This time her mother’s gray eyes cut to Alice, wide in their intensity.

Alice feels her cheeks redden with anger and embarrassment. “No, mother,” she says. _I am not_ you _. I won’t make your mistakes._ Her grip on the plastic fork tightens. The eggs and bacon have gone cold on her plate, untouched. The juices from the breakfast has mixed together, creating a liquidity substance that looks like piss.

Her mother maintains her stare on Alice. She keeps smoking from her cigarette, the motions ingrained in her after years of habit. “Didn’t think you’d be a whore,” her mother mumbles, a bit of ash falling to the table. “You look like a frigid if there ever was one. Bet your boyfriend - Kal, or whatever the fuck his name is - has got a bad case of blue balls. Or maybe he’s just gettin’ pussy on the side like a real man would -”

Alice stands up abruptly, the force of the motion knocking the table, the food nearly spilling onto the floor.

“May I be excused? I’m going to be late for school.”

Her mother is unfazed. She’s gone back to gazing at her high school portrait. She, too, has not touched her meal. She says nothing.

Alice takes that as dismissal. She leaves, not bothering to push in her chair and clean up her mess like she normally would. Her mother can deal with it. Or, more likely, her mother will wander off back to her bedroom after a period of time, not sparing one glance at the kitchen, and sleep for the rest of the day. Alice will have to clean up everything when she returns home from school.

Alice’s face is stone as she turns from her mother and their untouched breakfast and walks towards the entryway. Every breath is cool and even as she bends down to retrieve her shoes from the cupboard. Pearly pink flats shined to perfection, not a smudge to be seen. These flats mean more to Alice than most all of her other possessions. She had worked two part time jobs last summer to save up for them - they were way out of her budget but she didn’t care. The were beautiful, and good quality, and something completely _hers_. Not from her mother, not bought at some second-hand store, and certainly not from the south side. Alice slips her feet into them now and imagines that she stands up just a little bit straighter with them on. Once she has her backpack on her shoulders once more Alice marches out the door, not caring if it slams and upsets her mother.

The air outside is fresh and clear, not carrying any of the stench of cigarettes that her trailer home does. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. It’s cold outside, just chilly enough to need a jumper, the promise of fall lingering in the scent of fallen leaves and mulch. Alice can almost pretend that she stands on a wooden porch overlooking a vast evergreen forest. To the left is a paved driveway, a shiny mercedes idling on it. Her dad, a committed, loving, and successful man who never left waits inside, ready to drive her to school.

But Alice opens her eyes and the trailer park is all she sees.

“No matter,” Alice mumbles to herself as she begins descending down the steps of her home. “This is all temporary, I’ll be out of here soon-”

“Looking beautiful as usual today, Alice,” a voice interrupts. She starts, freezing in her tracks. “Even with the crazy, talking-to-yourself bit. Kinda hot.”

“ _Forsythe,_ ” Alice sneers, turning to glare at her neighbor.

“Alice,” FP returns mockingly, one eyebrow raised.

He’s leaning against his trailer home, hands in pockets, black leather jacket and ripped jeans in place. His hair is greased back, a single black curl resting on his forehead. He looks every bit of the handsome, rogue-from-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks he plays himself up to be at school and now he’s smirking. At her.

Alice is far from impressed.

“Beat it, FP,” Alice spits out and begins walking away. Maybe he’ll linger to smoke a cig or something, and she can make her way to school in peace without having to be seen with him.

“Already did this morning!” FP laughs as he trails behind her. Alice feels her anger rise at his audacity. _Keep walking,_ she tells herself, _just keep walking and eventually he’ll get bored and leave._

“What’s the rush, sweetheart? That eager to get to school and kiss up to all the teachers?”

Alice rolls her eyes and pointedly keeps her gaze forward, focused on her path and certainly not on _him_ . “Just because _some_ of us actually care about education doesn’t make it kissing up.”

“Sure it does.”

She holds in a scream, fists clenching at her sides as she quickens her pace. Not that the bus stop will provide any solace from FP, though. There is, of course, only one bus stop for the whole south side region to Riverdale High. A special arrangement was made for Alice and FP for a city bus to be rerouted and add one more stop; while it had normally stopped at the last corner near the train tracks that separated the north and south, it now crossed over and stopped right in front of Sunnyside Trailer Park. There would have been more uproar about such an arrangement if more people rode the bus. Most people in Riverdale proper had cars.

The trailer park is small, a sorry excuse of a neighborhood thrown together from the 20 or so trailer homes that inhabit the lot. An old, rickety fence in dire need of repairs lines the property. The paint is chipped badly and plenty of missing or loose boards create giant holes throughout the fencing, rendering it’s purpose of protection or exclusivity useless. Not that anyone would want to live in Sunnyside. Even in the south side it’s the least desirable area. The ground is dirt and rocks, littered with trash and gunk. _It’s like a castle or fortress_ , she and FP has imagined when they were children, running around the trailer park like it was their own private playground.

But now Alice sees it for what it is. “Trash,” she spits out.

“Who, me?” FP questions, having the gall to look offended.

Alice actually startles; she had forgotten, blissfully, that he was there for a second, wrapped up in her thoughts. They’ve reached the bus stop outside the gates and Alice checks her watch, impatient for their transport to arrive. On the bus it’s easier to ignore him. She sits in the seat right behind the driver, and FP slinks off to the back seats. There are usually at least one or two other passengers riding in the morning, and FP has learned not to make a scene in front of the northsiders. As cool as he likes to play it in Riverdale High, outside the school grounds he is just another southsider - unwanted and looked down upon with scorn.

FP takes note of Alice’s silence and fidgeting with quick, calculating eyes. He shifts his weight back onto the heels of his feet, languidly stuffing his hands in his back pockets. “Quite the chatterbox today, aren’t you?” He mutters, absently glancing out onto the empty road. There’s no real need to watch for the bus - they would hear it coming easily. “Wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something?”

Alice huffs and turns to issue another scathing retort at her persistent neighbor, but she pauses when she sees how intently FP is staring at her. She had expected the usual arrogant glint in his eyes and a cocky smirk - but he is not smirking, nor are his eyes judging. The downward tug of his lips and the furrow in his brow looks more like -

Concern.

Whatever words she might have said die in her throat. It's as if he’s looking right through her. His eyes stare straight into hers, bright and clear. Alice hates this feature of his, just like she hates everything else about him. FP Jones may be failing most of his classes, but he is not stupid. In fact, he is far, far too perceptive and intelligent for anyone’s good. He’s always been able to find and decipher those minute details, the little things that others would overlook and bare it for the world to behold. It’s why most people stay away from him, why they’re uncomfortable in his presence, squirming under his inspection.

And now he’s turned it on her. It’s ridiculous, she thinks, ridiculous and silly that her idiot neighbor who she ran around in diapers with, who is _beneath_ her, can make her feel like a fraud. As his eyes rove around her face Alice can almost feel him picking apart her carefully crafted appearance - the lip gloss turns stale when her tongues darts out to lick them nervously; her ponytail is suddenly too tightly wound, the beginnings of a headache forming; she can feel the heels of her cherished flats cutting into the backs of her feet, the sting a promise of nasty blisters to come.

Alice sucks in an unsteady breath, demanding that her body breathe, function again, something other than shake like a prey caught in the jaws of a predator.

“You’re delusional, Forsythe,” Alice finally stammers out, trying to school her features back into the hard exterior she wears. The way he continues staring at her indicates it’s futile at the moment. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

FP is not distracted. He takes one step forward, and god, Alice actually takes a step back. “Don’t I?” He counters, voice low, nearly a whisper.

He takes another step forward, only a foot between them now, and Alice is going to step back yet again, but FP knows this almost before she knows it herself, because he _knows_ her, and he reaches out to grasp her arm, halting her movement.

“What’s wrong, Alice?” He asks, and there’s no pretending anymore. No more facades, no more false bravado between either of them. His head his is ducked low, angled down toward hers and now there’s no mistaking the naked concern on his face. “Talk to me.” He says, as if it’s that simple.

His grip burns on her arm. Alice wants to shake him off, she should shout in his face and give him a slap too for good measure; yet with every erratic beat of her heart she can feel something loosening inside her. She _wants_ to open up to FP, she realizes. She wants to let go and stop pretending and just give in - but to what? To him? To FP? What does that even mean?

“It’s nothing,” Alice tries, her last bits of pride still holding on. “It’s just - stupid. Nothing worth worrying over.”

FP frowns at this. Without letting go of her he steps closer. Alice takes in another shaky breath and can smell the worn leather of his jacket. This is bad. This is dangerous. He shouldn’t be this close. But she still isn’t backing away. She can only meet his unyielding stare with a wide-eyed, half frightened one of her own.

He shakes his head, disappointed. “None of that, Alice.” His free hand comes up to her face, but pauses, inches away from her skin. “Be real with me.”

Alice opens her mouth, to say - she doesn’t even know what. That her mother is cruel and Alice doesn’t know if there’s any love left between them. That she hates this place, the south side, and fears that she will never be able to leave. That she’s been pretending to be the perfect, put together Alice Smith at school for so long now that she isn’t sure who is really is anymore. Or maybe -

FP watches the thoughts running through her head play out on her face, his eyes never once leaving her. He must see how close she is to unraveling, she is quite literally within his grasp, because then the hand hovering over her finally touches her, gently cradling her face. His thumb lightly, so lightly, traces the line of her cheek and Alice feels her whole body catch fire -

Or maybe she’ll tell him that she hates him, yes, she hates FP just as she hates the southside. Because just like this godforsaken trailer park and the dust lingering in the air, FP is always there, getting under her skin, into her lungs, haunting her. A reminder of who she is and where she comes from. Probably the one person in the world who truly understands her, who can see through everything, see the real Alice Smith.

And this terrifies her. So she hates him.

“I don’t…” Alice whispers, and FP’s eye flit down to watch the movement of her lips as the words begin to spill out. “I don’t know what to do, I - I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” She confesses. To him, to herself.

He nods slightly, assuring her. “It’s okay, Alice, you can talk to me.” If possible, he moves even closer, a few scant inches separating them now. The hand gripping her arm releases her, only to join his other in cupping her face. He angles it up to face him fully, his eyes still locked onto her lips, but darkened now with thoughts that make her stomach do flips. She reaches out to hold onto his jacket, needing something to anchor her, to steady herself.

“Trust me.” FP says, so close now that she can feel the words ghosting over her lips. His proximity, his hands, his eyes, him - _everything_ \- overwhelms her and she can’t decide if she likes it or if this is right - but she wants it. Alice knows she wants it.

Her eyes flutter shut and she sighs his name, “Forsythe.” She hears his breath catch and -

The roar of the bus can be heard from around the corner. They both jump, whatever haze surrounding them utterly broken. She comes back to her senses all at once. “Alice -” FP begins to say, desperate, but Alice shrugs out of the embrace and nearly runs toward the bus stop. She will not look at him. Alice ignores his repeated calls after her and her racing heart and the electricity running up and down her skin. She is nearly hyperventilating when the bus pulls up.

Alice boards and takes the first seat, right behind the driver, where she knows FP won’t dare try to sit and talk with her. She looks out the window, arms crossed, chest heaving, trying in vain to calm herself down. She will not look at him. She will not.

When he boards she can hear his footsteps stop before her seat, hesitating. Alice pretends she doesn’t care, that she isn’t affected by him, that he didn’t have her nearly breaking down and falling into his arms not even a minute ago. She won’t look at him. He hovers for a second more, and Alice imagines him reaching out again, hoping she meets him halfway - she closes her eyes and swallows down what feels like tears, waiting for the moment to pass. Finally, he makes his way to the back of the bus. Away from her. No words are spoken.

The bus ride is silent. Alice slowly pieces herself back together as they make their way across the train tracks to Riverdale. She visualizes the perfect girl she tries so hard to be - honor roll student, class president, and soon, valedictorian. She thinks of Hal and his chiseled jaw and golden hair. Of leaving the south side forever and never looking back.

The bus pulls up to the back parking lot of a laundromat hardly used anymore, a few blocks away from Riverdale High. It was part of the arrangement the mayor made for the two of them - a chance to hide their true origins from their classmates. It was one of the only things both sides could agree on.

Alice hops up from her seat and exits, setting a quick pace for the school. She wants to put as much distance between herself and FP as she can before they reach school grounds. After a minute or two with no leather-clad teenage boy accosting her, Alice turns, fearfully looking over her shoulder for her neighbor.

He’s nowhere to be seen. FP has more than likely wandered off to some alley to have a smoke before class, uncaring of being tardy. If he even shows up to class at all.

She glances around the street for a second longer, as if waiting to see his form appear from the shadows. When he doesn’t show her lips thin into their hard, unforgiving line once more, and she turns to continue on her way.

Without him.

Good. That’s how it should be. It’s what she wants.

It’s what’s best.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s Saturday night, FP Jones II is at a party, and he’s not drunk. Which is a problem, because being drunk is exactly what parties are for. That, and getting laid, and FP intends to accomplish one or both of those things tonight.

FP makes his way to the keg set up in the kitchen, elbowing dancing people and quite a few couples making out or groping in the process. The music blaring from the speakers in the living room makes the whole place shake with the heavy bass of some hip hop album or whatever the football team is into these days. 

A month or two into the school year is when Todd Clayton always hosts the big party in the weeks leading up to the Homecoming dance and football game. This is not FP’s first time attending, no - he quickly made a name for himself and became popular on the Riverdale High campus since he first step foot in school as a freshman - but this will be the first time the Serpents make an appearance. 

FP grabs a red plastic cup from the nearby counter and holds it under the spout, twisting the knob. A stream of piss-color liquid that is supposed to be beer fills up his cup. He glances around the house party while waiting. All the usual suspects are here - the whole football team and the Vixens. Hermione Ramirez and Sierra McCoy are laughing in a corner and tossing their hair, enchanting would-be suitors. In another corner stands Fred Andrews, pretending to listen to whatever conversation his football buddies are having while staring wistfully over at Mary Kirkland, who sits perched on a nearby couch chatting with a friend. 

Foam from the beer starts leaking over the rim of the cup. FP curses and quickly turns the tap shut. He takes a sip of the cheap beer - the best a bunch of high schoolers in a small town can get - and debates between going over to tease Fred about his inability to talk to girls or waiting near the entryway for the inevitable arrival of his gang. 

Forsythe Pendleton Jones II is a full-fledged Serpent now, and he has the stitching on the back of his leather jacket to prove it. He’s technically been a part of the gang for a year or two now, or “in training” as some of the other members like to call it.  _ Hazing _ is a more apt word, he thinks. Nights spent spray painting buildings and vandalizing property. Shoplifting from unsuspecting stores on the north side of the tracks, the owners too trusting and too naive to consider that people would actually  _ steal _ . That some people don’t have enough money for basic necessities, let alone luxuries.

He’d gone through the final stages of initiation last weekend. Memorizing the Serpent code ( _ a bunch of melodramatic bullshit _ ), getting bit by an actual snake (they only told him it was the non-venomous kind afterwards), and then the jumping by the other members. He hadn’t let out one cry or yell when he took the beating. The look of respect and pride in the other members’ eyes had been worth it.

His finger absently traces the leather resting over his forearm, where very soon a snake will be tattooed onto his skin. The final mark of him becoming a Serpent. FP likes the idea, he enjoys being part of the gang. It gives him purpose, it gives him belonging. He feels like he can actually be himself and not be ashamed that he is from the wrong side of the tracks - he can be proud of it. 

He can now have what feels almost like a family, like a home. He dares to says that he might even be  _ happy _ . Him of all people. FP Jones. He chuckles into his drink, taking another generous swig. FP still doesn’t feel nearly enough alcohol running through his system and lowering his inhibitions yet.

The front door opens and voices go up in cheer to greet whomever the newcomers are. FP doubts it’s the Serpents - they would warrant more suspicion and warriness from the Riverdale High students - but he walks over to take a peek anyway. 

Hal Cooper is making his way through the foyer, bumping fists and giving friendly pats on the back to all his friends. His hair is perfectly brushed and styled, his letterman jacket resting easy on his broad shoulders, and his smile is 100 watt. Riverdale’s own Golden Boy. FP would normally roll his eyes and be on his way, but it’s the sight of the girl Hal has his arm wrapped around that stops him. 

Alice Smith rests at Hal’s side looking like the perfect prep princess to his prince. Her blonde hair that is typically kept up in a tight ponytail is let down for once, straightened out to fall past her shoulders. FP hates her hair, or what she’s done with it now. He much prefers her dirty blonde curls, not this fake platinum bullshit. She’s wearing a small, tight plaid skirt and blazer set with brown loafers on her feet. She must have gotten very lucky at the thrift store with that find - it almost can pass as true designer.

_ Fake. Fake just like the rest of her. _

FP hates it. 

Mood taking a dark turn south, FP chugs the rest of his beer and heads back to the keg for some more. He resists the urge to look over his shoulder to see if Alice has noticed him yet.

He’s chugging his way through his third beer when Fred joins him at the tap. “Knocking back another one, FP? What round you on?” The redhead smiles as he fills his own cup. He holds up the beer in cheers before taking a drink. FP finishes gulping down the barmy liquid before lowering his glass and letting out an unceremonious belch. Fred looks bemused but laughs nonetheless.

“Typical FP,” he says, not unkindly. Fred’s near-constant dopey smile is in place but no longer directed at him. FP follows his friend’s line of sight and is not surprised to see it still trained on their classmate from before, Mary. Even through the beginnings of his buzz FP can see that Mary is sneaking surreptitious glances back Fred’s way, though his friend is either too oblivious or insecure to realize it. 

_ Probably both.  _

“Great party, huh. Good music, good beer, cute girls,” Fred is actually bobbing his head along with the music, drunk smile still plastered on his face. FP sighs and looks around for some harder liquor and shot glasses. Being completely shitfaced is going to be an absolute  _ necessity  _ if he’s supposed to help his best friend get his head out of his ass and go get some… well,  _ ass _ .

“Yeah, sure, the party’s bumpin’,” He agrees as he finds a bottle of some cheap vodka and two shot sized glasses. One is from Cancun, Mexico and the other has the Riverdale’s town insignia. FP fills both to the brim then hands the latter one to Fred. 

“Fucking cheers, Fred, lets have a good night.”

* * *

 

Four beers and two shots of vodka later, FP thinks,  _ I’m probably drunk. _

Which is a good thing. This had been his goal. One down, one to go.  _ What was the other one? _ He can’t remember. His vision swims a little as he looks around the room. Somehow he ended up on the couch. The very same couch that Mary and her friend are occupying. 

_ Oh yeah _ \- he had led a drunk and stammering Fred over to just fucking  _ speak  _ with Mary already,  _ Jesus _ , and by the looks of it now (FP is finding it hard to coordinate his limbs at the moment and takes a few seconds to turn and look) Fred is doing well. Considering he’s sucking face with one Mary Kirkland. 

“Looks like a round of celebratory shots are in order since I effectively just won wingman of the century,” FP slurs to the world at large. He rises from the couch the to execute a shaky and unstable bow, nearly falling over in the process, when a dainty hand reaches out to steady him. 

“Whoa there, take it easy,” An equally dainty voice says from his right. It’s Mary’s friend -  _ what was her name again? _

“I’m Gladys, by the way,” She answers for him. He probably said that out loud.  _ Fuck it. _ He turns and then FP finally gets a good look at her.

Gladys is a thin wisp of a girl with pale skin and dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Her lips are painted a muted purple and her outfit is just as dark as her hair. FP’s eyes wander down to her legs and yep, see-through tights with holes beneath a denim mini skirt. 

_ Gladys, _ FP decides,  _ is hot. _

Dainty fingers snap in front of his face and then motion up. “Eyes up here, Jones,” Gladys warns, one eyebrow raised. He most definitely said that out loud, too.

FP also decides that he likes Gladys. A lot.

“With eyes like that, I can keep mine on you all night,” FP says with a smirk and leans in closer to the girl, previous mission of finding more alcohol completely forgotten and abandoned. 

Gladys doesn’t move away in response to her personal space being very much encroached upon. Instead, she lifts up her cup to take a sip and continues examining FP, unimpressed. “You’re a charmer, aren’t you?”

“For you I could be,” FP winks. Or at least he tries to, but he can’t be sure if he accomplished that because his face (and whole body) feel kind of fuzzy. 

Gladys snorts, hand coming up to stop any of the drink she was in the process of swallowing from being spit out. “Oh, god, you’re actually serious.” she says. 

“Why I haven’t I seen you around before, Gladys? A girl like you would stand out easily in a sea of Riverdale pep.” 

She gives him a bemused look, evaluating his expression to gauge how serious his question is or if FP is just pulling her chain. He can’t even begin to image what his face looks like right now, seeing as he is quite wasted and the lights around Gladys are spinning. But FP finds he can focus on her. Those blue eyes are easy to latch onto.

“Maybe you should get your vision checked, Jones, because I’ve been your classmate since Freshman year.” She inclines her head at this, as if waiting for the dots to connect in his head. “We’ve definitely had a handful of classes together.”

FP’s jaw literally drops open in surprise, but he has a cool and collected image to maintain so he takes another drink of his beer in what he hopes is a completely natural movement. “You don’t say?” He mumbles from around the rim.

Gladys offers a small smile and shrugs. “I wouldn’t notice me either. I try to keep a low profile from all the… “pep,” as you called it. Not my scene.”

FP is about to use this opportunity to slide in another cheesy pick-up line but Gladys eyes something behind him towards the front of the house. They sparkle with something down right mischievous when they return to FP. His dick twitches, just a little bit. Gladys is  _ very  _ hot.

“Besides, you don’t exactly fit into the Riverdale Pep either, yet you’re always caught in the middle of it,” Glady says.

FP laughs, throwing his head back and enjoying the way his blood swims. “A Jones boy always has trouble keeping himself out of where he shouldn’t be. But I’m not really part of Riverdale, and I won’t be hiding that any longer.” 

He turns around, brandishing the detail on his leather jacket with pride, despite spilling copious amounts of his drink in this process. He grasps the labels of his leather jacket and cranes his neck back to smirk at Gladys. 

“Ahh, so you’re a Southside Serpent now,” Gladys remarks, and FP likes to imagine that she is impressed and ready to be swept off her dainty little feet by Riverdale’s new resident bay boy.

He is about to ask if Gladys would like to take a ride on the wild side, he has his bike parked out front, when a shriek cuts off their conversation and silences most of the on-going party.

_ “What are you doing here?!” _

A group of five teenagers have just entered the Clayton residence, decked out in ripped jeans, combat boots, and leather jackets bearing Southside Serpent regalia. FP can make out Tall Boy with his blonde locks he’s been growing out to look like Kurt Cobain and Penny, her small form easy to notice among the larger bodies of the other gang members. 

The Riverdale High students have created a wide berth around the Serpents, backing away and whispering incredulously to each other wondering how and why  _ southsiders _ crashed  _ their  _ party. The Serpents meet the heated glares of the northsiders with stoney faces. 

Except for Penny who is smirking dangerously at the person across from her. 

FP barely has time to recover from his shock at the dramatic scene straight out of Dawson’s Creek when Alice steps forward, eyes narrowed to near slits and lips curling over her teeth. A tiger ready to pounce. 

“You need to leave.  _ Now _ .”

Penny smirks. “We happened to have been invited here,  _ Alice _ .” 

“Who the hell would invite you -” Even from his position over by the couches, FP can see the exact moment when Alice puts two and two together, her eyes widening, cheeks red with anger, lips pursed into a thin, deadly line.

“And that’s my cue,” FP mutters to himself. Gladys must’ve heard him and offers a small pat on his shoulder. 

“You’re a Jones boy through and through,” she parrots back at him, looking entirely too amused by FP’s impending death via teenage drama. “Always caught up in some shit.”

FP chuckles. “You’re damn right, Gladys!” he yells, voiced raised in false bravado and cheer. Alice is glaring daggers at him now, looking at FP like he went swimming through the sewers before coming to the party. His shout arrested the attention of everyone else, their faces a mix of delight at the drama and anger at the Serpents’ audacity. 

FP doesn’t take his gaze off Alice as he downs the rest of his beer, throat bobbing with his generous gulps. When that’s emptied, he wipes away the drops that spilled over and lets out a gratuitous  _ ahh  _ of satisfaction. He crumples the plastic cup in his hand and tosses it over his shoulder, uncaring of where it lands. FP marches over to the entryway where the crowd of vultures has gathered, hungry for whatever scraps of humiliation they can sink their beaks into.

Whispers of both approval and indignation ripple through the sea of party-goers. FP’s always taken both in stride, the whimsical moods of high schoolers doesn’t bother him. He’s not paying attention to them. He doesn’t care about anyone else. 

Alice is looking at him. He has her full attention. Even if it’s in anger and possibly (definitely) hatred, FP intends to relish every moment. It’s not often that Alice Smith acknowledges his existence anymore. Not since she left the Serpents and started hating the southside.

Started hating him.

“Of course  _ you  _ had something to do with this,” Alice spits out when he reaches the scene. 

“Hello to you too, Alice,” FP rolls his eyes and addresses the Serpents. “You guys want a beer? Shots?”

“Absolutely not!” Alice interjects before they can respond. She moves to take a step, but Hal chooses that moment to stop drooling or whatever dumb shit he normally does to grab hold of his raging girlfriend. 

“Cool it, Alice. I don’t want these people here either but we don’t want to provoke a fight.” Hal eyes the gang wearily, and for all his six foot athletic frame he has to haul Alice back with both hands. 

Penny barks out a laugh. “That’s right ponyboy, run away with your tail between your legs.”

“Wouldn’t want to bloody up those expensive clothes daddy bought you.” Tall Boy chimes in, lips parting in a smirk to reveal his crooked teeth.

Alice rips out of Hal’s grip and lunges forward, a scant few inches separating her and Penny. “Shut up!”

Penny is unfazed. “Or what, Smith?” Her cold eyes travel up and down Alice’s form. “So the rumors are true,” she says.

“What rumors?” Alice’s lips purse wearily. FP feels his stomach drop. 

“That you’ve turned into a northside whore.” Penny nods her chin in Hal’s direction. “Does he pay you in those nice clothes? One blowjob for a new pair of shoes?”

Alice shrieks. Penny smirks. Hal looks like he’s having an aneurysm. Tall Boy’s laugh joins the rest of the crowd’s. And FP wants to be somewhere blackout drunk on a bed, not dealing with this shit. 

Unfortunately, he’s not, and he can’t leave at the moment because Alice is moving again to, like,  _ hit  _ Penny or something. Which is probably what the snakecharmer wants, because Penny’s hand is withdrawing something shiney out of her pocket that looks suspiciously like brass knuckles -

FP steps in.

“Ladies, ladies,” he says, posture sauve and leisurely, the complete opposite of how he’s actually feeling. “We’re all here to have a good time, yeah?” His hands are raised in a supplicating gesture, motioning to the party at large, but he’s strategically positioned himself between the two bloodthirsty blondes.

“Let’s just have a few drinks, play a few rounds of beer pong, and maybe go toilet paper Mr. Weatherbee’s house later,” FP smiles, putting all the charm he possesses into the gesture. The stuff that makes all the girls blush and sigh and the guys want to be his friend. That makes them all forget, for a brief second, that he is not one of them and never will be.

It seems to be working. The crowd is losing interest, those on the outermost edges already abandoning the scene once they’ve realized a bitch fight isn’t about to happen, leaving in search of more drinks. Others are turning away, mumbling to themselves but offering no other protest. Only the Serpents, Alice and Hal, and a few of the football guys remain. 

“Besides, this is Clayton’s party, so he gets to decide who stays and who goes,” FP finishes, finally turning forward and meeting Alice’s eyes. The movement puts him squarely between her and the Serpents. The north and the south. Alice and FP. 

Her eyes are still all fire, blazing in their intensity. She glances down, takes in his leather jacket. FP schools his face into careful neutrality, trying to appear unshaken and in control. But inside his heart is racing, he can feel his shirt dampening with sweat, and he feels nervous, so fucking nervous at what Alice’s reaction will be.

Her eyes flick back up to meet his. He can’t read them. Something he doesn’t understand, something he wasn’t prepared to deal with reflects back at him.  _ Maybe, _ he thinks,  _ maybe this is it. Maybe this is my chance. _ He wants to reach out, touch her, pull her to him and take them away from all this Riverdale bullshit, but FP realizes he’s terrified. He’s terrified of Alice and this stupid, strange power she’s always had over him.

Or maybe it’s the alcohol.

Whatever the reason, whatever may have transpired had FP stepped forward and said  _ something _ , he’ll never know. Before his brain can order his mouth to open, Alice’s eye harden, and there’s that steely look he’s come to dread. It’s that morning at the bus stop all over again. She’s slipping away, shedding her skin like the snake she tries so hard not to be and steps into her Riverdale facade. 

Alice lifts her chin, demeanor cool and smooth and not at all the raging mess she had been a minute ago. “Fine, Hal and I don’t have to associate with you thugs.” she says, voice dripping with contempt on the words  _ thugs _ . 

“Alice,” He says, words finally coming out, and her name is so much softer on his tongue than he ever intended it to be.

“Yeah FP, whatever man,” Todd Clayton himself speaks up now, looking bored with everything. “I don’t give a shit if your gang is here as long as they don’t steal or break anything,” He gestures behind him to the kitchen. “We’ve got two kegs and more beers in the fridge.” And with that, him and the football posse leave. 

Only then does Alice break eye contact with FP, sending one last glare at the Serpents behind him. It is only because FP is still staring at her, hasn’t taken his eyes off her, that he sees the slight slip in her charade, the chip in her armor; the way her hands ball into fists and her eyes glisten as she turns and shoves past Hal to storm down the hallway, ignoring his cry of, “Babe, wait, do you know where I put my beer?”

She’s running away. Like she always does.

But FP won’t let her this time. He won’t put up with this stupid act any longer. 

“Alice,” he says, louder. “Alice, wait!”

Penny and Tall Ball are speaking to him, but he doesn’t hear them. His mind of full of the image of Alice slipping away. He travels down the hallway, squeezing past drunk classmates waiting for the bathroom or passed out against the wall. The music begins to fade into the background as he turns a corner. He catches a glimpse of Alice walking into a darkened room before she shuts the door behind her. 

“Alice!” FP curses and runs over, knocks urgently on the door. “Alice, I’m coming in,” he announces, because where she is concerned there is no asking, you have to take.

The door opens without protest, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, the only source of illumination being slivers of moonlight peeking through the blinds. Alice is facing away from him, hunched over. FP can make out the sounds of her sobs over his own heavy breathing. 

“Alice,” he says in that damned tone again. Like it’s something not meant for him. Like it’s brief and fragile enough to break over his words. “Alice, look at me.”

At first she doesn’t respond, and FP debates how stupid it would be to reach out and force her to face him, but she moves on her own. Slowly, chin tucked into her chest, hair spilling over her face. Hiding the tears that are surely falling.

“Hey,” FP whispers, a hand coming up to brush back a few strands of hair. “What’s wrong?” 

His fingers barely make contact when she bats his hand away, eyes spitting venom despite the tears. “Don’t touch me,” she bites out.

“What the fuck is your problem, Alice?” All tenderness FP had been trying to employ is immediately abandoned. This is just like Alice to bring out the worst in him despite his best intentions. And it’s just like him to react. 

“You!” She says, a finger pointed in accusation. “You are my problem!” 

“Me?” FP brings his hands to his chest, incredulous. “What the hell did I do to you?”

Alice scoffs, tossing the hair out of her face. “Oh, don’t play dumb, Forsythe. You make it your life’s mission to make  _ my  _ life hell. To ruin everything for me.” 

“That’s not true, Alice, stop making up bullshit,” FP’s voice is rising with his anger. He can actually feel the irritation pulsing through his veins, he thinks, until he remembers that, oh yeah, he’s fucking drunk. He’s drunk, angry, and arguing with Alice. 

Distantly, FP can acknowledge that this is the absolute dumbest fucking thing he can do right now, but like a train wreck he is helpless to stop it. All he can do is wait for the resulting carnage.

“Why are you acting like this Alice?” he demands. FP knows where he’s going with this, knows how to push her buttons. She may be able to easily get a rise out of him, but he knows her weak spots, the things she tries to hide.

“Acting like what?” Her arms are crossed and she’s glaring at the wall, refusing to look at him.

He takes a step forward. “Acting like a hateful bitch,” she flinches, but FP keeps going. “Acting like if you dye your hair, put on some expensive shoes, and date an asshole jock that you’ll be one of them. A northsider.”

He can see her fingers turn white with strain as she digs her nails into her arms. But she still doesn’t turn to look at him. “I’m different from you and your lot, Forsythe, it’s time for you to accept that.”

He laughs, an empty sound. “ _ My lot?  _ Get over yourself, Alice, you and I played in diapers together! We’re fucking  _ neighbors, _ for god’s sake.”

She shrugs. “The past is the past.”

“Yeah? And what about your time with the Serpents?” Her nails are digging into her skin, seconds away from drawing blood, and FP feels a sick sense of glee at her discomfort. “You weren’t so eager to be a Riverdale princess then.”

“That was a mistake,” she mutters. “I was desperate.  _ Never  _ in my life will I stoop so low again.”

He’s looming over her now. Alice isn’t a short girl, but FP is tall, and he can see the hair on her head flutter under his breathing. 

There’s a pause. FP thinks that maybe they’re both finally worn out. Both of their emotions have been strung high since they entered the party. Maybe they’ve aired all their grievances and can move past them and  _ actually  _ talk.

But Alice never could let things be. 

“I’ve moved on to bigger and better things, Forsythe. Hal comes from a good family, he has connections, and he certainly would never have to live in a broken down trailer or join a good for nothing, low life gang.”

A second, long enough for her to smirk, the promise of a lethal blow. “He’s not  _ you _ .”

He snaps.

FP grabs Alice and shoves her against the wall, caging her in with his larger form. 

"You act like you're better than the Serpents, better than me - but guess what sweetheart?" He leans in, his lips brushing against her ear as he speaks. "You'll always be a southside girl."

Alice snarls, bucking against him in her struggle to free herself. “Get the fuck off me!” 

FP loosens his hold, allowing her hands to slip out of his grip, but he presses his body closer, pinning her to the wall with his weight. His now unoccupied hands reach up and grab Alice’s face, lifting it up to meet his. She stills, hands pausing in their effort push him away. Her eyes are wide, wild, almost desperate. 

“No more bullshit, Alice,” he says, and then captures her lips with his own.

This isn’t the first time they’ve kissed, and this definitely isn’t the most coordinated of their stolen kisses, but it’s raw. It’s full of hurt and anger and lust, and it takes his breath away. 

Alice doesn’t hesitate for a second. She kisses him back full force, hands moving from his shoulders to grab him by the lapels of his jacket, hauling him closer, their bodies sliding together till not an inch separates them. Her kisses are demanding, challenging him to fight back. To take from her, because she  _ will  _ take everything from him. 

FP slides one hand to the nape of her neck, angling her head so as to deepen their kiss. His other hand slides down her chest, slips under her jacket and cups her breast, squeezing her the way he knows she likes it. He’s rewarded with a moan that he can feel reverberate in his own chest.

He’s content to let this continue, to kiss Alice over and over and over. To let her lead him where she will. He’s always been a slave to her fancies. He’s suffered enough by her hand and is so starved of her touch that he will be happy with whatever scraps she cares to give him.

From the way Alice bites at his lips, pulls the hair on his nape - the way she’s  _ moving  _ against him, FP knows she’s caught up in it too. They’re a perfect storm, the two of them. There’s no peace where they’re involved.

They finally break apart to take needed gulps of air, chests heaving, breaths intermingling. Alice’s eyes are closed and she leans her head back against the wall. FP’s hand is still caressing her neck, and he takes the opportunity to slide it down her skin, back up her neck, brushing over her cheek. Memorizing her - the feel of her skin, the way her lips part in a soundless sigh when his thumb touches it. 

“Alice,” he whispers. Her eyes flutter open, hooded and dark with something that makes FP’s blood race. “Alice, I -”

_“Alice!”_

There's banging on the door.

They both jump. The sleepy, warm haze and lust that had been clouding over them is shattered with each rap against the door. 

“Hal,” Alice says his name like it was something she had forgotten. An unpleasant memory bubbling to the surface. 

FP begins to panic. “No, Alice, wait, we’re not done here.” He suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands. They flutter over her without purpose, bees circling a pot of honey. Alice is shaking her head now, whether to say no or to clear her mind, he isn’t sure. It’s not helping.

Hal knocks on the door again. “Alice, are you in there? Are you okay, babe? You disappeared on me.”

_ You cared more about your beer than your girlfriend,  _ FP thinks, clenching his fists. Alice is no longer looking at him, her gaze is tacked to the door. She still hasn’t said a word. She might as well be a thousand miles away. He’s losing her all over again, and he never even had her. Not really.

“Come back to me, Alice,” His eyes are boring into her. Willing - begging - her to turn and look at him. To say,  _ Forget Hal. I don’t love him. I never did. I'm going to - _

“Leave Hal,” He blurts out. There was no chance at controlling the errant thought. It lit like the wick on a firework, sparks ignited and shooting off into the night. The result contains none of the beauty. It's not a sight anyone wants to behold. 

Alice stiffens, sucking in a breath. 

_ A train wreck. Helpless to stop it. _

“Leave him,” FP continues. “Come back with me.”

_ Can only watch the resulting carnage. _

She looks at him then. His blood runs cold.

“I’m leaving the southside, Forsythe,” Her eyes are emotionless, containing none of the life and fire they had before. “After graduation I’m leaving for college with Hal, and I'm never going back.”

Hal is still knocking. “You’re not crying, are you babe? You don’t want to ruin your make-up.”

Alice steps away from the wall. She readjusts her clothes and smooths out her hair. Makes her way to the door. FP does nothing to stop her. He lets her slip past him, sand spilling from his fingers.

Her hand is on the doorknob when she pauses. 

“I won’t let anything stop me. Even you.”

Alice walks out and closes the door behind her. 


End file.
